Soldiers
by What contented men desire
Summary: In 1944, Minerva McGonagall started Hogwarts and met her two best friends, Alastor Moody and Iain Menzies. They suffered the evils of Men, and supported each other through the worst of times. This is a story of friendships that last a lifetime. AMxMMxOC
1. Prologue

Some admin things before I get started.

First, copyright. What elements of this story that I own, and are not the property of anyone else, are licensed CC-BY-NC-SA. That means that you can take anything in this story, up to and including the whole thing, and use it however you like, as long as you promise me three things:  
>1. You will link back to me (preferably to my author page)<br>2. You will not make money off whetever you do  
>3. You will share your work under these same conditions<p>

Next, I want to apologize for my long absence. I've left a statement on my author page, if you want to go and read it. I hope you do.

Finally, A few words about this story that aren't covered in the description. My current vision (subject to change) is that this will be an epic of the life stories of Mad-Eye, McGonagall, and my OC Iain Menzies (readers of my other stories will be familiar with him). It will be a story of pain, suffering, and the evils men can do, and above all how the bonds of our friends can bear us through even the most trying of circumstances. I hope you enjoy the show.

Finally-finally, the chapter title is a line from the Irish national anthem, in Irish Gaelic. It means "Tonight we man the gap of danger."

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><p><strong>Prologue: Anocht a théam sa bhearna baoil<strong>

In the year of our Lord 1930, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi began his historic crusade for Indian home rule. In the same year, the National Socialist German Worker's Party won its first major victory in German federal elections. Also in this year, and far more significant to the story at hand, a young man named Sean was married to a young woman named Anna by a very elderly priest, whose name isn't important, in a mud brick hut in a small Irish hamlet, whose name didn't even exist. What separates this union from the many others that had taken place in the recently-established sovereign nation, and indeed from those performed by this very preacher, is the fact that they both had magic blood, from very old and established pure-blooded families in the strange and mysterious world of Wizardry.

Which, regrettably, meant very little in this particular case. Anna, though from the very old, wealthy, and respected Morris clan, had been cursed with the misfortune of being born unable to do even the basest of magic. For a family with as many generations of pureblood witches and wizards as the Morris', this travesty was simply unacceptable. So Anna had found herself in this dirty little town, about to be married to another disgraced heir of an ancient and noble family.

Sean's ancestry was just as deep and rich as Anna's, but he had the advantage of being perfectly able to do magic. Where his difficulty lay was in his parentage. His father, a formerly respected wizard of high status, had lost all standing in wizarding society when he had fallen in love with a muggle in the village, and had married her. In magical society at the time, this was the most grievous sin a son could commit against his parents, and these parents had seen fit to write their son out of their will. When Sean had been born, in 1892, he had been introduced into his grandparents' will in place of his father.

The two had met when Anna's parents, contacting her for the first time in decades, urged her to marry the older man, so that she wouldn't be quite as pathetic of a daughter. Well used to the criticisms of her parents, Anna did so. She quickly learned that Sean was in possession of a vicious temper and cruel streak, but she married him anyway. Needless to say, she did not enjoy her wedding night.

The life they made together was equally dismal. Sean's favourite pastimes, in order, were drinking, complaining, beating on his wife, and sleeping. He would wake around noon, spend hours in the village pub (racking up an enormous tab), and then come home expecting a hot meal. If he got one, it would never be to his liking. If he didn't, or if what he did get was especially offensive to him, Anna would hear about it from his fists.

Her life, unlike Sean's existence of laziness, was full of hardship. She woke early to tend to the sheep that they kept, and to tend the potatoes, carrots, turnips, and other vegetables planted in her modest garden. These vegetables, as well as milk and wool from the sheep, formed the extent of both their modest diet and more modest income. Sean had never found out that she sold half of what she grew in the village market every Sunday, nor did she feel the need to burden him with the information. As long as she was within sight of the hut when he left for the pub, Sean would never be the wiser, and he never was.

She took his every beating silently, and why wouldn't she? She was married to a drunk, yes, but he was a drunk who would someday inherit a vast and ancient fortune. Maybe, just maybe, that would be enough to reconcile with her family. She had left three brothers behind when she had been ousted by her parents, and she missed all five of them dearly. Enough to suffer through her private hell of a marriage.

For all of her justification, that didn't mean that she didn't want the almost daily beatings to stop. It was for this reason that, in the spring of 1933, she was especially glad to reveal to Sean that she was carrying his child. Even through the drunken haze of his twisted and angry mind, that news had a strange effect on him; the punishment that had plagued her life for three years ended, and the flow of complaints slowed. He still never lifted so much as a finger to help her, but as long as he wasn't lifting that finger to hurt her she could handle it. That was, until the day she collapsed at the market. Sean must have been having a particularly enjoyable time drinking himself into a stupor, because he was completely absent for all of the twelve hours that she spent in horrible, excruciating pain, giving birth to his child. To his son.

To revenge herself in some small way, she recalled a little-used name for the ancient god Zeus: the avenger. Coupling that name with the name of her husband's family, the name she had taken for herself, she named the boy.

On 14 January, 1933, Anna neé Morris gave birth to Alastor Moody.


	2. The Hogwarts Express

Copyright: What elements of this story that I own, and are not the property of anyone else, are licensed CC-BY-NC-SA. That means that you can take anything in this story, up to and including the whole thing, and use it however you like, as long as you promise me three things:  
>1. You will link back to me (preferably to my author page)<br>2. You will not make money off whetever you do  
>3. You will share your work under these same conditions<p>

Two admin notes: First off, I uploaded an old version of the prologue, which contained an element that had been changed in a recent revision. I'll spare you the effort of going back, because it's a small thing: Alastor was born in 1932, not 1933. Secondly, this is the only chapter that I have pre-written, so don't get used to this six-hour update cycle.

This chapter's got some more meat to it than the last one, so hopefully it'll get a little more attention. Don't forget to leave a comment telling me what you think. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: The Hogwarts Express<strong>

_1 September, 1944_

"Honestly mother, is this really necessary?"

"Of course it is dear; you want to look your best on your first day. First impressions are everything, you know."

Minerva McGonagall grimaced, but held back the biting reply that danced on the tip of her tongue. There was no use arguing with her mother, the woman was from an older, more stubborn generation. The older woman tutted softly to herself, clearly formulating some silent grievance against the insolence of youth today, as she deftly twirled her wand about her daughter's hair. Such cheek would not have been tolerated in her day, no sir.

Minerva, despite her mother's overbearing ministrations and overwhelming application of makeup, was by no means an unattractive young woman, even at the tender age of 11. Her hair, which was typically kept in a severe bun and not the flirtatious ringlets it had recently been coerced into, was a most uncommon shade of brown, and her bright green eyes, well-set in an aristocratically angular face, peered keenly from behind sharp square spectacles. Her figure was larger than she would have liked and remained undeveloped, despite the best efforts of the ludicrous corset forced upon her by her mother. While neither of these things were surprising in an eleven-year-old witch, Minerva often mused privately that it infuriated her mother and her plans to marry her off to some aristocratic pure-blood. As can well be imagined, this was hardly a source of guilt for the wilful young woman.

Nevertheless, it was an exciting day: her first day of school. As was the custom among all the best pure-blood families in Britain, the only child of the McGonagall line was being sent to the finest (and most expensive) institution in the entire magical world, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to be taught the intricacies of magic by a host of the finest sorcerers in the British Isles. Alternately, as her mother saw it, it was a 6200-galleon-per-year investment in match-making. Alas that was the common thinking of the day: women should be seen more than they should be heard, and school for them was a place of social growth; form some friendships with other women, find yourself a husband, and possibly learn a little bit about the way the world is made, if you can find the time; become a society wife: arm candy for a rich pureblood, with nothing substantial going on between your ears, and be set for life.

But that would not be Minerva's fate, not while there was breath in her body. Males were the farthest thing from her mind, except for when her single-minded mother would take her for "playdates" with young boys with old money. Even then, she had little interest. Her mother expected her to watch primly and politely as fat, snot-nosed children shoved mud into their mouths, but as soon as the old woman had her back turned, little Minerva was off like a shot, either to the library or outside to the woods. Either was preferable to abetting the kind of gluttony promoted by the old pureblood houses.

No, Minerva would make something of her life. Like Galatea Merrythought, the first female Hogwarts professor since the school's founding, or Bathilda Bagshot, the first widely-published female historian, Minerva McGonagall had vowed for as long as she could remember that she would put her education to use, rather than becoming an empty-headed baby factory.

"Minerva!" Her mother's sharp reprimand brought the young lady back to Earth. "Stand up straight for your Father."

For all her professed independence, she complied instantly to this command as Robert McGonagall strode purposefully into the room. It was for this man, her model of masculinity, that all of Minerva's ambition was directed towards impressing.

Major Robert McGonagall, recipient of no less than seven medals for bravery and gallantry in military service, was one of only a handful of wizards who enlisted with the British Army at the very beginning of the Great War. In three years of service, he led a massive percentage of a 150-man company to their heroic deaths against the Germans, and returned having left one of his hands in the French countryside. Since then, he fulfilled many typical activities of a wealthy pureblood: serving on the Wizengamot, the Board of Governors for both Hogwarts and St. Mungo's, and a great deal of time smoking and drinking at gentleman's clubs. To get his approval was considered a rare distinction in British pureblood society, one Minerva herself had never received, and in forty years no one could recall seeing him smile.

Now, even on the morning of his only child's very first day of formal magical education, was no different. Minerva watched his dark eyes scan her, taking in the results of her mother's ministrations and the way the elegant, bottle-green dress skimmed her usually-full frame, now tightened by the corset, watched his thin mouth grow still thinner as she curtsied, and heard his low voice utter nothing more than "Passable" before he turned on his heel and was gone again.

She had no time to dwell on her disappointment, however, as the ancient grandfather clock in the corner chimed 10:45, sending Isobel McGonagall into a state of utter panic for the lateness of the hour. Nevertheless, the elder woman took her daughter in one hand and her daughter's heavy trunk in the other, and apparated to King's Cross Station, Platform nine-and-three-quarters with better than ten minutes to spare.

The platform, needless to say, was a cacophonous riot of bustle and noise. The process of getting three hundred students, plus luggage, onto a single train in time for a prompt departure, all the while with concerned parents, well-wishers, owls, rats, toads, cats, dogs, and house elves milling about is destined to be some manner of chaos, as indeed it was, made little better by the perpetual fear of attack by Grindewald's _Magische Vereinigten_ army. Even in the heart of London there was no safety from the raids.

"Now Minerva," the elderly woman cautioned as the pair wove expertly through the crowd, a technique honed by years of attending Ministry functions, "If you hear the sirens, find a secured place and take cover. Let the Aurors handle the raid; you're much too young for that sort of thing."

Minerva nodded absently; all of the safety measures had been outlined in her letter of admission. The decision to keep Hogwarts open despite the Blitz by the muggle armies and the raids by the magical ones had been controversial enough that Headmaster Dippet had been forced to implement certain policies: in the event Hogwarts was breached, warded raid shelters would be made available and all students were to make their way to the nearest one and lay low. A contingent of Aurors assigned to the castle would then spring into action to combat the dark wizards.

Minerva personally was none too concerned; Hogwarts had among the best defences in the Magical world, rivalling those of the Ministry itself, and second only to Gringott's in strength. Barring Grindewald himself, she doubted there was any force in the world that could breach the castle.

"I certainly hope nothing happens," her mother continued, "But if it does, just remember that you have the finest wizards in the land guarding you. You'll be quite safe."

With that nugget of wisdom firmly in mind, Minerva had her trunk loaded onto the scarlet train, and had time for a stiff and uncomfortable hug before she boarded. Eager to be away from her overly-worried mother, and well ahead of both the crowd of boarding students and the 11:00 departure, Minerva had no difficulty in finding an empty compartment, pulled a thick leather-bound book from the small valise of intimately personal effects that had accompanied her, and promptly drifted away from the world.

In what seemed like no time at all, a long blast of the train's horn and a sharp jerk signified the beginning of her trip, and hardly any time after that, the door to her compartment opened most unexpectedly.

Startled, Minerva looked up from her book to witness the most singular individual entering, closing the door, and taking a seat without so much as a "how-do-you-do." The individual was a boy, which was surprising enough in itself, and the most awkward and uncouth boy Minerva had ever seen. A tartan carpet bag was clasped in his hands, rough from labour and far too large from his thin frame, which was alternately straining out of or drowning within well-worn and filth-encrusted wool clothes.

Had he kept his back straight he would have stood some inches higher than Minerva, but his slouch and arched back ensured they would remain at eye-level. His hair, which was an admittedly not-unattractive rusty auburn, had clearly been most recently cut by pruning shears, no earlier than six months prior, and didn't appear to have been washed since well before that. Despite his filthy appearance, which caused Minerva to unconsciously draw back her feet as he slumped past her, his broad shoulders hinted that he would be an imposing figure at full height, and he was not wholly unattractive.

She would have liked to get a glimpse of the stranger's eyes, but they never once so much as flicked towards her, remaining fixated out the window, watching the world go by. In fact this mysterious boy gave no indication that he even realized he was sharing the compartment.

"I beg your pardon," Minerva finally broke the uncomfortable (to her) silence. Her companion didn't even twitch. "But is it common, where you're from, to barge into a lady's compartment unannounced, seat yourself without her invitation, and not even acknowledge her very presence?" She winced internally; she sounded like her mother.

The boy was silent for a moment. "Seemed quiet." He finally grunted. His voice was quiet, and more gruff than an eleven-year-olds had any right to be, and hinted of Ireland.

Taken aback by his brusqueness, Minerva pressed on. "It doesn't strike you as rude, at all?"

"Nowhere else to sit." He replied simply, still not looking at her.

"Nowhere?"

He didn't answer, just shook his head slightly.

Minerva was about to huff, as her mother often did, but she checked herself. It her first day, and his as well by the looks of it; she had never much cared for her mother's etiquette anyway. "Very well, but I would at least like to know your name." A beat. Two. Three. "My name is Minerva. McGonagall." She supplied.

He finally turned to look at her. His face was flat and square, as though it had been carved from a particularly stubborn bock of granite. He wasn't exactly unattractive, for his age, but nor was he a heartbreaker. His eyes, though small and black, were diminished by dark circles and the beginnings of wrinkles, but there was a light to them, a fire of passion that hinted at the man behind the filth. "Alastor." He replied shortly.

A thousand questions burned in Minerva's mind. Where was he from, who were his parents, was he excited to begin Hogwarts, and others, but before they could leave her tongue, the compartment door opened once more.

No new face appeared in the entranceway, merely a folded piece of parchment floating in the air. It flapped into the compartment, looked about, and landed neatly in Minerva's lap. Curious, the young lady opened it and began to read:

_Dear Miss McGonagall,_

_It would do me great honour if you were to attend a little get-together today, on the way to the castle. I have read the most extraordinary things about your father, and I am positive that you are an equally remarkable young lady. I and my similarly remarkable acquaintances, some of your fellow students, will be holding a little party in Compartment C until shortly before arrival. I do hope you will consider attending; I promise you will not regret it._

_Regards,_

_Professor Horace Slughorn, Master of Potions_

She considered a moment, but her complete lack of friends, indeed of any acquaintances beyond the mysterious Alastor, won over. Indeed, she was halfway out the door before etiquette stopped her. "Would you care to accompany me?" She inquired of her companion. He gave no reply, continuing to stare out the window at the passing trees. Giving up, she turned away and hadn't gone more than a half dozen steps before the truly noxious odour of unwashed man indicated that she was being followed. "I didn't think you were interested."

"Changed me mind." Alastor responded simply, and that was that.

The "party", such as it was, was less than remarkable. Professor Slughorn, a short, fat man with the most ludicrously oversized handlebar moustache Minerva had ever seen, had set the compartment up with a great quantity of hors d'oeuvres, and was currently attempting to navigate his enormous stomach around the fifteen or twenty other students he had gathered. Minerva recognized some of them: Amelia Bones, a fellow first-year, and her brother Edgar, a fourth-year, whose father was a decorated Hit Wizard; several old purebloods with fathers in high places, including Jonathan Avery, a fifth-year, the unfortunately-named Lewis Lestrange, a seventh-year, William Nott, a fourth-year, and Gabriel Mulciber, another first-year. Two of the Black children, seventh-years Alphard and Dora, were also in attendance, with seventh-year Charlus Potter hanging off of Dorea's arm.

There were also many she didn't recognize, particularly an aristocratically handsome Slytherin with dark hair and darker eyes standing out against his pale skin, surrounded by the four non-Black purebloods Minerva had noticed earlier. It was to him that the professor was currently speaking, and the easy manner of conversation between them suggested that this boy was one of Slughorn's favourites. But then the fat man turned, saw his newest arrivals, and bustled towards them quickly.

"Minerva McGonagall!" He exclaimed, his moustache quivering in delight, "I'm so glad you decided to join my little soiree. Tell me dear, how is your father these days?"

Minerva bristled at being referred to as 'dear,' but opted not to comment. "Father is well; keeping busy, of course." Slughorn nodded his understanding. The way his moustache flopped a few seconds behind the rest of him was distracting. "I would like to thank you for the invitation. You seem to surround yourself with impressive people; I am honoured to be considered their equal."

The moustache twitched impressively, likely indicating that its owner was beaming with pride at her compliments. "You absolutely are, my dear." Minerva bristled again. "Your father was one of my first students, a great wizard, one of the best in England to be sure." He gestured to the table behind them. "Please, help yourself to yourself to some snacks. It appears as though your…servant…has already discovered them." The moustache fell with that comment, and Minerva turned to see why.

Alastor had, indeed, found the food. He already looked as though he didn't belong, his filthy, common clothes standing in stark contrast to the well-dressed and high-born witches and wizards around him, but he was not making himself look any better by devouring everything he could reach, which was indeed what he had done. Minerva had turned just in time to see him closely inspect a small canapé, sniff it as a dog would sniff an unfamiliar treat, and then swallow it whole.

Minerva bit back a grimace. "He's not my servant. He's my…friend." What exactly was Alastor to her? Friend seemed close enough, but unexpected companion was closer to the mark. Eager to change the subject, Minerva turned back around and gestured discretely towards the pale boy. "Tell me Professor, to whom were you speaking when I first arrived?"

Slughorn's eyes lit up. "I'm so glad you asked, my dear. Come, come, you must meet him. Tom!" The boy turned as the portly professor led Minerva in his direction. "Tom, I'd like you to meet Miss Minerva McGonagall. Her father, Robert, was a student when I first started at Hogwarts, and one of the finest wizards I've ever met."

The pale boy inclined ever so slightly in greeting. "Tom Riddle. I'm delighted to make your acquaintance. Any friend of the professor's is someone worth knowing, in my opinion." Tom had a pleasant, fluid voice and a familiar manner that made it easy to like him, and he wasn't bad-looking either, but the longer she was around him, the less comfortable Minerva felt. His smiles, though warm and frequently given, never seemed completely genuine, and there was always an edge behind his eyes, betraying the fact that his warmth was merely a front.

And then Tom's eyes flicked over her shoulder, and the smile slipped from his face. Suddenly he was no longer the suave gentleman, but a coiled serpent. "And what," he spat, almost venomously, "Is that?"

Slughorn tapped the boy on the shoulder. "Manners, Tom. This is Miss McGonagall's…er, friend. Mr.…"

"Alastor." Alastor broke in from behind Minerva, offering his hand for Riddle to shake.

The older boy did no such thing. "Charmed." He was clearly nothing of the sort, but in a moment the façade returned, and he was charismatic Tom Riddle once more. "If you'll excuse me, professor, I believe that Mr. Potter and Miss Black are departing for the prefect's meeting, and they will not be pleased if I am late." With a firm shake of the professor's hand, a passing smile at Minerva, and a scathing glance at Alastor, he was gone, his entourage following from a short distance.

"What a boy." Slughorn seemed oblivious to the animosity shown by Riddle. "He'll be Head Boy next year, dare I say it, and who knows what after that? That boy will do great things, I swear it to you."

Minerva was forced to agree, but after seeing the merest glimpse of what was behind his public face, she had to wonder what manner of great he would be.


	3. Welcome to Hogwarts

Copyright: What elements of this story that I own, and are not the property of anyone else, are licensed CC-BY-NC-SA. That means that you can take anything in this story, up to and including the whole thing, and use it however you like, as long as you promise me three things:  
>1. You will link back to me (preferably to my author page)<br>2. You will not make money off whetever you do  
>3. You will share your work under these same conditions<p>

Welcome to a new chapter! Not a whole lot to say about this one, off the top. I only ask that, once you've ead it, you leave a comment telling me what you thought. I know you're reading, or at least clicking, but I don't know what you like, dislike, or want to see more of unless you tell me. Thanks, and enjoy the show.

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><p><strong>Chapter 2: Welcome to Hogwarts<strong>

It was cold and dark, close to 9 o'clock at night, when the great engine finally came to a stop at Hogsmeade Station. Minerva and Alastor, long changed into their assigned school robes, stepped off the train with the crowd of eager, sleepy, and hungry students. Once he had changed into clean clothes, Minerva was forced to admit, Alastor's appearance had improved dramatically. However, she noted with her nose crinkling as he stepped upwind of her, he could stand to bathe more often.

The platform was immersed in the unfortunate combination of highland mist and steam from the train, making it impossible to see more than a metre in front of one's nose. The upper-years, no help whatsoever, had scarpered off without any warning, already knowing the way and more than happy to get at the warm castle and the plentiful feast. Minerva was just about to pull out her wand when Alastor tapped her shoulder. Looking in his direction, she could see a dim yellow light breaking through the mist, and a loud, somewhat-cracking voice calling out: "Firs' years! Firs' years, this way!"

The pair moved towards the voice, Alastor a step or two behind, and soon enough an enormous man, holding aloft a bright lantern, broke through the mist. He was well over twice the height of the tallest man Minerva had ever seen, and about twice as wide. Upon closer inspection he wasn't a man, but an extraordinarily large boy, with the hint of whiskers on his face and a mop of black hair. Alastor, always suspicious of new things, fixed the boy with a hard look. "Who the bloody hell are you, then?"

The boy didn't seem upset, though Minerva scowled at her friend's behaviour. "Name's Hagrid, assistant gamekeeper. I'm takin' you lot to the boats, so if yeh'd come this way, please-and-thank-yeh." Minerva liked Hagrid immediately; he was a kind person, with an honest face and a large, bright smile.

Alastor was less enamoured, but followed nonetheless. "Shouldn't you be a student?"

"Yeah." Hagrid looked suddenly sad, his beetle-black eyes taking on a far-away look, but he perked up quickly when the three of them, and the rest of the first-years, reached the edge of the lake where a fleet of small boats was waiting. "A'right you lot, no more'n three ter a boat. Come on, let's go; sooner you get goin', sooner you get to the feast."

If there was a better way to motivate forty starving eleven-year-olds, Minerva didn't know it. In the resulting mob she got separated from Alastor, and ended up sharing a boat with Amelia Bones and another young lady named Augusta Blishwick. As soon as everyone was settled, the fleet of boats lurched magically forward, driving under their own power into the mist. Not recognizing the Blishwick name, Minerva asked her new friend, and learned that they were a minor pureblood family, not particularly well-respected in the wizard community. Minerva thought that was a shame; Augusta was a perfectly nice young lady, if a little confrontational and hard-headed, though Minerva could hardly fail to recognise the same qualities in herself.

The boats drifted across the lake. With the fog so thick, it was difficult to judge their progress, but soon enough the curtain of grey parted, and rolled back, and where it had been there was now a great and majestic castle, standing up from the hill like something from old stories. As Minerva looked up at Hogwarts, her heart couldn't help but leap up. There was something about it – with its piercing spires, sheer faces, and bright lights twinkling invitingly from its windows – that felt inexplicably _right_. She looked over, and was surprised to see Alastor straining almost out of his boat, as if he were trying to get his entire body as close to the castle as possible. Even from that distance, she could see something in his eyes that she had never seen before. For the first time, he looked like the young boy he was, a young boy who desired something with every fibre of his being.

But Minerva could not appreciate this phenomenon for long, as the fleet of boats passed through a curtain of ivy at the base of the castle, into a wide underground harbour. The boats steered themselves over to a stone dock, and Hagrid lead the first-years up an ancient staircase, hewn into the rock, into the deep foundations of the castle, to the face of a plain wooden door. The large boy's great hand knocked at the door, the sound echoing through the stone cavern, and it creaked open to reveal a tall, thin wizard with a short brown beard and flowing purple robes, the spitting image of a stereotypical muggle wizard, twinkling blue eyes peering at the assembled students over half-moon spectacles. "Welcome," the wizard said in a light, pleasant voice, "To Hogwarts."

This new wizard, who identified himself as Professor Dumbledore, Deputy Headmaster and Professor of Transfiguration, led them away from Hagrid and into the castle proper. The inside of Hogwarts was no less majestic than the outside: massive, beautiful tapestries hung from the walls, as well as countless portraits of witches and wizards who peered out of their frames at the students passing by, many shouting out greetings. The whole place was illuminated by torches on the walls, but there always seemed to be enough light. Dumbledore led the group into the Entrance Hall, a cavernous entranceway with massive oak doors on one side and an equally massive marble staircase on the other, and left them in an antechamber to wait for his return.

Minerva's heart went out to Alastor, standing apart from the others. He was a very lonely boy, though he seemed to prefer it that way, taking no counsel but his own, and offering none. But something about him intrigued her, her instincts telling her that there was something buried beneath the gruff voice and untrusting attitude, and she was resolved to help him through it. Begging leave of Amelia and Augusta, the young witch moved through the crowd of students towards the lonely boy.

Alas, if only things were ever that easy. Out of nowhere, and suitably blocking her path, came the most unwelcome figure of Gabriel Mulciber. The Mulciber family was very old, very wealthy, very pure-blooded, and very proud of all three of those things, and their heir was the embodiment of everything his name represented. He was well-built, for an eleven-year-old, with high cheekbones and well-groomed blonde hair. His eyes, a brightly piercing blue though they may have been, were usually filled with malice or some cruel mischief, and now they were more the latter.

"McGonagall," he drawled, clearly delighted at his luck. "How wonderful to see you. Have you managed to find a husband yet?"

Minerva scowled, fighting to keep an even complexion. Her father had gone to great lengths to secure her a husband of high birth, with absolutely zero success, and all the old families knew it. They all found her too wilful, and she found them all too loathsome. Mulciber, she recalled, had been a particularly nasty child, scornful to his elders, cruel to his servants (which were numerous, and were replaced with alarming frequency), and had been perhaps most derisive of all of her proud bearing, as though a wife should stick to birthing and gossiping, and leave intelligent matters to men. Detestable little swine.

"That's none of your business Mulciber, but if it pleases you, then I have no desire to find a husband." True, more or less, but not the whole of the matter. "Now if you'll excuse me."

He would not. "That's not what I heard, McGonagall." His sneer could have curdled milk. "I've heard that your daddy is asking the lowest bride price in centuries, and nobody'll take him up on it." That was also, unfortunately, true. "Why, it'd be more expensive to kidnap some muggle whore than to become your husband."

Minerva, though thick-skinned, was shocked by that remark, but she held herself together well. "I'm surprised your father hasn't taken him up on it, then. Merlin knows it's the highest price you're likely to command."

Mulciber's self-control was dismal compared to Minerva's; at her jab, he flared up like a volcano, hissing some foul words beyond the range of hearing. He moved as if to strike her for her insolence, and she reflexively flinched away, but at the last second his hand rebounded, repelled by invisible force, and a low, cold voice spoke from behind him. "Is there a problem?"

Mulciber, caught off his guard, spun around to see Alastor standing there, seething. There was something in his eyes that frightened Minerva; something hard, and not at all pleasant. "Back down, mudblood. This doesn't concern you."

Minerva was not in the least surprised to hear that word pass Mulciber's lips, but it was nonetheless offensive. Alastor merely narrowed his eyes. "Ain't muggleborn." He answered simply. "You'd better stand down."

The other students had noticed what was going on, and they had come to watch the fun. Now, Minerva knew, nothing good would come of this. Mulciber wouldn't back down to one he considered inferior, certainly not in front of an audience, and at this moment Alastor did not look particularly stable.

"What if I don't, then? This isn't any of your damned business." Mulciber's warning was chilling, but Alastor did not back down. He merely shifted his weight, lowering his center of gravity, ready to fight. Mulciber laughed, and four other boys stepped out of the crowd to back up their friend. Only one of them Minerva recognized, a sandy-haired boy with a round head and an eerie, ear-splitting grin that never seemed to leave his face. This was Owen Travers, one of the few potential husbands that even her father agreed was unsuitable. On the only occasion they had met in person, he did not once acknowledge that she was present, gleefully occupying his mind with the torture and maiming of small insects.

Alastor's eyes flicked over the five boys assembled before him. None of them were particularly large, though all except for Travers was taller than he, and that one had a glint of madness in his eye. Five on one was bad odds, and he knew it.

"Surely you're not going to carry on with this woefully mismatched altercation." A light Scottish voice broke through the tense silence, surprising everyone, Mulciber not the least. The voice's owner, a pale boy who stood a head taller than everyone in the room, stepped forward behind Alastor. He was a particularly peculiar boy, not because of his height, but because he was unnaturally thin; his skin, white as the snow, was stretched taught over his already-lithe frame, making him look for all the world like a skeleton with short black hair. With every move his bones threatened to pierce his nigh-translucent skin, but there was an air of gravity about him, not unlike that surrounding Mr. McGonagall.

"I don't need your help." Alastor growled to the boy, never taking his eyes off his foes.

"But you're getting it anyway." The boy replied matter-of-factly. "Besides, five on one are steep odds."

"That's what makes it fun."

Without warning, Travers leapt at Alastor, knocking the boy off-balance and nearly driving him to the ground, and all hell broke loose.

Alastor grabbed Travers by the arm and flipped him onto the ground, where he landed back-first with a thud. Mulciber lunged, but was rebuffed when Alastor flung his carpet bag into the boy's stomach and punched him hard in the nose.

The pale boy was somewhat more economical, taking out his first assailant, a slightly rotund boy whose name would later turn out to be Smethley, with a swift punch to the diaphragm and his second, a rat-like boy named Parkes, with an open-palmed smack to the side of the head.

Alastor, meanwhile, was wrestling the fifth boy, by far the largest, named Reedham, when Travers re-appeared and sank his teeth into Alastor's arm. Roaring with pain, the momentary lapse of concentration allowed Reedham to throw him to the floor. After detaching Travers with a haymaker to the side of the head, Alastor rolled to the side to avoid Reedham's boot coming down where his face had been.

The pale boy, having by this time dispatched his assailants, now came to Alastor's aid. Showing surprising strength for his bony appearance, he brought the larger boy to the ground with a strong kick to the inside of Reedham's kneecap, and was about to deliver the heel of his hand into his opponent's face when, to his notable surprise, his arm did not respond to his instructions.

All eyes turned towards the door, where Professor Dumbledore had his wand trained on the boys, a look of indescribable anger etched into his face, so terrible that even the first-years who had nothing to do with the fight shrank away from it. Behind him was Charlus Potter, a much older boy with a mess of black hair and wire spectacles, looking on in total surprise. When the professor spoke, his voice was deep and commanding, and brooked no disagreement: "You seven will stay. Charlus, the Head Boy, will take the rest of you into the Great Hall to be sorted. Do so now." Charlus motioned to the first-years not currently in trouble, and led them out of the antechamber and back into the Entrance Hall. Minerva alone of them stayed behind, but it took every ounce of will to stay rooted in place when Dumbledore turned his no-longer-twinkling gaze upon her. "You too, Miss McGonagall."

Curious how he knew her name, but too afraid to ask, shook her head in silence. It took a moment to gather her courage, but when she finally did, she said "No, sir. This fight was on account of me, so it is only fair that I be punished accordingly."

Dumbledore considered her carefully, and it seemed that he softened a little, for he merely replied "Very well" before releasing the boys from their enchantment and lining them up before him. "You should be made aware," he told the assembled students, "that Hogwarts does not look favourably upon students attacking each other, either magically or physically." His eyes swept over Mulciber, whose nose was liberally dripping blood, Smethley, who was still gasping for air, Parkes, who had a bruise forming just above his eye, Reedham, who could still not quite stand at his full height, and Travers, ever smiling his manic smile.

"Hang on…" Alastor began.

"No excuses, Mister Moody." Dumbledore's eyes flashed dangerously, and the use of his heretofore unknown last name made Alastor back down, although there was a bitterness in his face.

"Begging your pardon, sir," The pale boy attempted much more diplomatically. Dumbledore suffered him to continue. "There can be no excuses, but it must be known that the actions of myself and Mister Moody were only to protect the honour of the young lady there." Dumbledore's eyes flicked over to Minerva, and he seemed to consider.

"Be that as it may," Already he sounded less angry, which could only be a good thing, "Fighting is not tolerated at Hogwarts, and the first day of term is no exception." The pale boy looked to the floor. Alastor alone kept his eyes even with Dumbledore's. "However," All looked up, hopefully. "As this is your first day at Hogwarts, and you have not yet been sorted, I cannot conceive of an appropriate way to punish you. Let this be a warning:" his voice grew very dark and grave, "You will receive no such leniency again. I hope you take this event to heart, because it will not go well for you if it happens again." He fixed each of the eight with a piercing look, and they all nodded that they understood.

"Now follow me," Dumbledore relaxed, the gentle twinkle returning to his eye, "And let's get you all sorted." With a silent wave of his wand to heal all visible hurts, he led them back to the Great Hall.

Minerva felt as though she should say something to the two boys who had tried to defend her, but with Dumbledore's anger so recent in her mind, and her path still blocked by the others, she was not able. She did happen, however, to catch Alastor muttering a few words to the pale boy: "Thanks for the backup." The boy merely smiled thinly in reply.

The group entered the Great Hall to raucous applause. It took several self-conscious seconds for Minerva to realize that their late arrival was not, in fact, the cause; instead she picked out a willowy brown-haired girl making her way to one of the four long tables that occupied much of the floorspace, and seating herself next to Amelia Bones. At the far end of the hall was a raised dais, upon which the professor's table stood. Before that table stood a plain wooden stool topped with a ratty and stained pointed hat. Beside the stool stood Charlus, the Head Boy, bearing a long scroll of parchment. "Bulstrode, Violetta." He called, and a heavyset girl stepped forward from the mass of first-years assembled before the dais.

She seated herself on the stool, Charlus placed the hat on her head, and in only a moment a small tear near the hat's base had opened and cried out "SLYTHERIN!"

Cheers erupted from one of the house tables, and Miss Bulstrode left her seat to go and join them.

Minerva turned her attention away from the sorting to examine her surrounding more carefully. The Hall was magnificent; not nearly as massive as the Entrance Hall, but no less majestic. On the wall behind the Head Table there hung a tapestry bearing the Hogwarts crest: a shield bearing a lion, a serpent, a badger, and a raven, each on a field of a different colour (respectively scarlet, emerald, gold, and sapphire), all guarding a singly letter 'H.' The legend beneath bore the Latin phrase "_Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus_," which was beyond her skill to translate.

At the Head table itself, as Minerva had already noted, sat the staff. Twelve there were, now that Dumbledore had slipped behind them to take his seat. Besides him, Slughorn's moustache threatened to dip into his goblet each time he raised it to his lips. At the very center of the table, between both Dumbledore and Slughorn, was a frail, elderly wizard who must have been Headmaster Dippet; the poor man looked as though a strong gust of wind would knock him over, though Minerva had heard that he had been a great wizard in his prime. Also of note were a jolly-looking fellow with bright eyes and a somewhat large belly (though nothing to compare to Slughorn), and a crinkled and ancient woman with a long trumpet pressed to her ear. Standing in the shadows behind the Headmaster was a tall man in a long black overcoat, so hidden that she could not discern his features. A quick glance around the Hall revealed several similar figures she hadn't noticed before, lurking in the shadows near doorways.

Minerva brought her attention back to matters at hand just in time to see both Jack Longbottom and Daniel Mallard go to Hufflepuff, before Charlus cried out "McGonagall, Minerva," and she found herself perched on the stool with the old hat on her head.

At once she heard a voice inside her head, an old and curious voice, with surprising vigour. "McGonagall, oh yes. Very bright, I see, and ambition. Loyal, my word yes, and brave. Very level-headed, I see, but you have impulses, like all the others. Decisions, decisions," it whispered, hemming and hawing over this attribute and that. It all seemed to take much longer than the others had. "Now my dear," the hat addressed her directly, startling her, "My first instinct is to put you in Ravenclaw; you've certainly got the mind for it, and you'd do well there. But not since dear Rowena herself have I seen a young lady of such potential, so I think I must put you where your talents will be best used…GRYFFINDOR!" The last word was shouted to the Hall, and Minerva went to join the table that cheered loudest. There was so much congratulating going on as she took a seat beside Augusta that she missed Araminta Meliflua going into Slytherin, but was well-settled when Charlus called out for Iain Menzies.

She watched carefully as the skeleton-like boy who had come to Alastor's aid stepped forward. The hat took a very long time with him, and she could see Charlus shifting uncomfortably before, finally, it called out "RAVENCLAW!"

Minerva applauded along with the rest as Iain strolled casually to the Ravenclaw table, his curious appearance garnering its fair share of curious stares. He seemed totally oblivious to them, or else he was fantastically unperturbed by them, as he took a seat between a first year girl and a boy so short that he had to stand on his seat to comfortably reach the table, and was soon chatting amiably to both of them.

Albert Mockridge went quickly into Ravenclaw, and then Charlus called out Alastor's name.

Alastor was under the hat for a very long time. Charlus had well passed his comfort level, and was whispering hurriedly across the table to Professor Dumbledore, likely asking for some direction, when at long last the hat cried out "GRYFFINDOR!" Perhaps it was her imagination, but even the hat seemed relieved to have made a decision.

Alastor stomped towards his table and took the first empty seat he came to, which happened to be far from where Minerva and Augusta sat. Minerva was slightly dismayed by this; she had assumed that, since he had stood up for her honour, she had managed to coax him somewhat out of his isolation. Alas it was not so, but even still she wished that she could thank him for it, him and Iain both.

There was little of note about the rest of the sorting; the five boys involved in the fight all went to Slytherin, as did Druella Rosier. Druella was the perfect complement to Mulciber: an obsequious society woman while in the presence of pureblood men, possessing of a wicked tongue for gossip, and as disdainful as you please of anyone or anything that wasn't a pureblood witch or wizard. Finally, Kendra Wimple joined the Hufflepuff table, and the sorting ended.

As Charlus left the hall bearing the Hat and Stool, Professor Dippet lifted himself from his seat, seemingly with great effort, and magically amplified his voice before speaking.

"I have no doubt," he said, his voice frail and squeaky even through the magical filter, "That you are all anxious to begin the feast." There was a great roar of agreement from the students, involving much banging of tableware against table, all of which was silenced instantly at a motion of Dumbledore. "However, before minds are clouded with nourishment, there are some announcements that I must make." A murmur of discontent shuddered through the students; Dumbledore silenced it again.

"As you know, the Ministry of Magic is currently engaged in hostilities with the Dark Wizard Grindelwald. Grindelwald's forces have recently been pushed out of northern Scotland, but the Minister believes that Hogwarts will be a target if and when they attack again. To that end, the Minister has assigned an Auror team to guard the castle, led by Auror Thicknesse." Dippet gestured towards the shadowy man behind him, who now stepped forward into the light.

Auror Thicknesse was a tall, broadly-built man. Completely bald, one eye was covered by a dark patch, and the other swept grimly over the assembled students. Heavy boots thudded against the ground as he walked, his long overcoat swishing about him. Minerva noticed also that he wore a black glove on his right hand only. Headmaster Dippet stepped aside, allowing the Auror to take his place to address the school.

"Don't bother with that 'Auror Thicknesse' crap," His voice was hoarse and raspy, but he did not struggle to be heard. "My name is Erebus. I'm Deputy Head of the Auror Office, and in charge of Hogwarts security until that bastard Grindelwald is put down." Out of the corner of her eye, Minerva noticed that Dumbledore shifted in his seat.

"The headmaster and I have organized security measures." Erebus continued. "You'll see my men guarding strategic entrances and patrolling the grounds. If you don't bother them, they won't bother you.

"Raid shelters have been prepared for your protection. If Grindelwald or his army attacks, you'll be directed towards the nearest one and sealed inside while my men clear the threat. Once inside," Erebus' voice became very grave, "Do not leave until one of my men comes for you. I cannot guarantee your safety outside of those shelters.

"Until further notice, you're all expected to be in your dormitories at 7 o'clock, and not a second later. Heads of House will be conducting head counts, so don't be late. Afterwards, prefects, professors, and head students will be patrolling the corridors. If they, or any of my men, catch any one of you wandering about without permission, there'll be hell to pay.

"Access to the grounds is restricted to daylight hours. All entrances to the castle will be sealed at sundown, and I don't care what time that is. If you're on the outside when we lock the doors, you'd better have a damned good explanation." Erebus swept the students with one final, piercing glance, and retreated back into the shadows.

Professor Dippet stepped forwards to take his place. "In addition, there will be no Hogsmeade visits this year." At this news, a fervent muttering swelled amongst the older students. The first- and second-years, Minerva included, were not particularly troubled, but the elders seemed on the verge of revolt. "I understand that this comes as a shock, "Professor Dippet continued, as the murmur slowly faded, "But it is for your own safety.

"Finally," the murmur returned.

A couple of seats down, Minerva heard an older boy whisper to his neighbour "What else could he possibly take away?"

"Finally," the professor repeated, "For security reasons, there will be no Quidditch Cup this year."

While the students had muttered mutinously upon hearing that they would not be going to Hogsmeade, this news left them in stunned silence, save only for the strangled cry that came from Charlus Potter, freshly returned to the Hall. Even Minerva, who as a first-year would certainly not be playing, was dismayed; she greatly enjoyed the sport, none the less because her mother deemed it unladylike, and had been looking forward to watching a live match. It wasn't long before the murmur returned. Minerva heads the same boy from earlier whisper: "Well now they've done it; what are we going to do now, _study_?" She saw Dumbledore raise his hand for order, but there was none to be had; the students were angry, and would not be abated. The din rose, and first one person, then more, began banging plates and cups together as the Headmaster struggled to be heard. Minerva saw Erebus slip away from the Head Table towards his men, and saw them speaking hurriedly while drawing their wands.

Suddenly a loud bang refocused everyone's attention. Turning her eyes to the Head Table, Minerva saw Dumbledore standing, towering over Professor Dippet with his wand in the air. "That is enough." He commanded, and those students who had been driven to their feet by passion returned to their seats. "This behaviour is unbecoming of Hogwarts students." The Professors disapproving gaze touched each student deeply, even those, like Minerva, who had not been participating. "In happier days, I would share your sentiments completely." Someone in the Hall snorted, but was silenced swiftly by their neighbours. "But these are not happy days; we are at war.

"Your families have sent you to Hogwarts to keep you safe. They believe, target or no, that Hogwarts will keep you away from the War. I understand that the loss of some privileges may make Hogwarts less bearable to some, but know that the choice between a Quidditch match and guaranteeing your safe return to your families is no choice at all."

Minerva could feel the sense of shame that permeated the Hall. As she glanced around, she saw only three faces that dared to meet Dumbledore's eyes: Alastor, Iain, and Tom Riddle. Those three stood apart from the rest, looking in this moment as high-born princes of old. A wave of self-consciousness washed over her; she wondered if she looked so noble, if any eyes had been set upon her.

After a moment, Dumbledore spoke again. "Put let us now put this behind us. If the Headmaster is finished," Dippet indicated that he was, "Let the feast begin." With that, he took his seat again even as food appeared on the plates in front of them.

No guest had ever described Robert McGonagall's table as anything less than plentiful, and Minerva had certainly never gone hungry there, but even the dinner-table of her father paled in comparison to the richly-laden trays of Hogwarts. Had the Hall not so quickly erupted with hundreds of conversations, Minerva swore she would have heard the table creaking under the weight. Filling her plate with everything within reach, Minerva settled into an excellent feast and an engaging conversation with her new friend Augusta who, as it turned out, was just as passionate about Quidditch as Minerva herself. It was oddly refreshing to have a conversation with another female that resolved less around whom was having an affair with whom.

Of course, inevitably, the topic of conversation did turn to boys. Augusta, as it happened, was quite taken with young master Menzies. "He has an air about him," she defended, blushing profusely. "He's so…noble. Not like that other boy." Minerva followed her friend's eyes down the table to Alastor, who had a chicken leg in one hand and was ripping off chunks with his teeth. "He's a right pig."

"Alastor's alright." Minerva found herself defending the odd boy, who had hardly said a dozen words to her. "He's got a different sort of nobility."

Augusta snorted. "Maybe. But somebody needs to teach him how to behave himself." Minerva had no good response.

The meal wore on but, as all good things are wont to do, it eventually came to an end. As the last of the uneaten feast vanished from the tables, Minerva remarked to herself that she had never felt so utterly full. Her mother had always impressed upon her that ladies should eat daintily and, though she had never been truly hungry, she had also never been so satisfied. After a meal like this, she thought to herself, she may never return to her mother's style of eating.

Professor Dippet stood again to address the students one final time. "Now that food and drink begin to make you weary, I will keep my final remarks brief. I would like to thank all of you for your co-operation in these trying times, and wish you the best possible term. First years: your house prefects will lead you to your dormitories. Everyone else: I bid you good-night!" And that was it.

Minerva soon found herself in a crowd of Gryffindor first-years, following the fifth-year prefects: A weedy blonde boy named Alberic Philpott and a full-figured redhead named Octavia Switch. The pair led their charges expertly through the weaving passageways and up staircases just before they shifted to point somewhere completely different, high up into the rafters of the castle. Finally they found themselves before a painting of a very large woman in a pink dress, which swung open on unseen hinges when Alberic gave the password "_Absit invidia_," revealing the Common Room beyond.

The Common Room itself was a pleasant place, a great round room billed with tables and large squashy chairs and a large, inviting fireplace. More interesting to Minerva, at least at that moment, were the two staircases that wove apart from each other. Alberic stood beside one, and Octavia the other. Minerva moved towards the female prefect, but remembered herself suddenly when a particularly familiar odour hit her nose. She turned around to see Alastor standing a short ways away, well apart from the other Gryffindors. Steeling herself, she stepped towards him.

If he noticed her approach, he did not show it. "Alastor?" No response. "I wanted to thank you for earlier. It was brave of you to stand up to Mulciber."

He turned to look at her. Though he wore the same grim scowl as ever, Minerva thought that he looked sad, though she couldn't fathom why. "Don't mention it." He grumbled simply.

"May I ask why you did?"

Alastor considered her for a moment. "Don't like bullies." He said finally. Minerva deflated slightly. Clearly she had been mistaken to believe that he cared for her at all. "And you're my friend." He added, causing her to perk up again. "Only one I've got, I suppose."

The two looked at each other for some moments; two young people, each alone in their own way, who had found each other. Finally, Minerva's exhaustion overpowered her. "Goodnight, Alastor." She turned and moved towards the portrait hole, almost not hearing the reply.

"Night, Minerva."


	4. Constant Vigilance

Copyright: What elements of this story that I own, and are not the property of anyone else, are licensed CC-BY-NC-SA. That means that you can take anything in this story, up to and including the whole thing, and use it however you like, as long as you promise me three things:  
>1. You will link back to me (preferably to my author page)<br>2. You will not make money off whetever you do  
>3. You will share your work under these same conditions<p>

Welcome to Chapter 3. Apologies to my loyal readers (I know you're out there) for the long delay; I've had this chapter written in its entirety for close to two months, but personal and professional things contrived to keep me from updating. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3: Constant Vigilance<br>**

"_It would have displeased me to hear that you had been sorted into any other house. -Father"_

Minerva stared morosely at the neat, stiff handwriting on the piece of parchment before her, sighed once, looked down at the plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, sighed again, ate a spoonful of eggs, sighed a final time, then looked pack at the parchment and started the process anew.

It was in this condition that Alastor found her. He looked a lot better than he had on the train: his hair was washed, the filthy musk of body odour was gone, and he'd scrubbed the dirt from his skin. If it wasn't for his ill-fitting robes, the dark circles under his eyes, and the grim scowl etched permanently onto his face, he would have looked like a normal human being.

As abnormal as he may have looked, no one could doubt that he was still an eleven-year-old boy when he sidled into the seat across from her and began filling his plate (and his mouth) with everything he could reach. He paused, mouth stuffed with sausage, when he heard her sigh for the seventh time, swallowed, and asked: "Something wrong?"

She sighed. Again. "No." Came her reply. He picked up his fork. Another sigh. "Yes." He put down his fork. "I got a letter from my father."

"Least your dad sends letters."

She smiled grimly, turning the parchment towards him. "Yes, well; you haven't read it yet."

He did so now, munching on a piece of toast, brow furrowing. "He's a bit of a tosser." He said matter-of-factly, reaching for another piece of toast.

"I beg your pardon Mister Moody," A kindly voice spoke up from behind them. "I do hope you have an explanation for your choice of language." Minerva turned. Behind them, stack of parchment in hand, stood Professor Dumbledore. The old wizard, though his voice sounded stern, was betrayed by his eyes: bright and twinkling with amusement.

Alastor's eyes narrowed. He looked as though he were about to say something very unwise, so Minerva jumped in. "He was referring to my father, sir."

Dumbledore's eyebrows shot up. "Indeed? There must be a reason to use such choice words to describe as upstanding a citizen as your father." Wordlessly, Minerva handed him the letter. When he handed it back, his face had hardened nigh-imperceptibly. "I see. Rest assured, Miss McGonagall, that any other house would be proud to have you join them and, undeserved reputations aside, you should have been equally proud to have joined any of them." The professor passed Minerva and Alastor each a schedule. "There is more to life than one's reputation, Miss McGonagall. Let no one tell you otherwise, not even your father."

Minerva thanked the professor as he moved on, and turned back to see that Alastor had relaxed, and was regarding the older man with a curious respect. "Smart chap." The Irishman noted under his breath, the corners of his lips twitching as if resisting the urge to smile.

"Oh, and Mister Moody?" The professor had turned back, eyes twinkling more than ever. "Five points from Gryffindor. We can't have our students going around insulting the Governors."

With some amusement, Minerva noticed her friend's almost-smile instantly dissolve. "Charms?" She reminded him, stifling a chuckle as he turned to sulk over his plate. He only grunted in reply.

Charms was indeed their first class of the day, and it was taught by a young woman named Poole. Professor Poole was a slender lady with long black hair, who had the peculiar habit of moving as though the air around her had the consistency of molasses. "There was an accident," she explained to the class of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws in her slow, drawn-out voice. "Many years ago. You and I no longer experience time in the same way. To you, I appear very slow," The professor trailed off.

All the time Professor Poole had been speaking, introducing the class and explaining her unique condition, Minerva had only been paying half-attention. She had early-on been distracted by some commotion on the other side of the room, amongst the Ravenclaw students, and that still held her gaze. The skeletal Iain Menzies appeared to be in the midst of a friendly difference of opinion with a mousey little boy sporting very round glasses. Menzies had just turned in his seat to refocus on the professor when his opponent threw a wadded-up piece of parchment at the back of his head.

What happened next was so shocking, it took all of Minerva's willpower not to cry out; Professor Poole _moved_. Her entire body almost seemed to stretch impossibly forward, and then snapped back so that she was now standing between the two boys, the parchment clutched in her outstretched hand. "Or very rapid." She finished her sentence, oblivious to the looks of awe and terror on her students' faces. "Five points from Ravenclaw, Mr. Mockridge. Now today," she continued, striding back to her desk and withdrawing her slender wand, "We will be performing levitation." Thus began the lesson.

Despite her handicap, Professor Poole was a very capable instructor. Perhaps not surprisingly, she was also a careful one, and a patient one. She led the class through the wand movement in minute detail, and paid such strict attention to the pronunciation of the incantation that she was able to pick out a single error out of the entire class, and correct it immediately. The tedious practice culminated in the last twenty minutes of the class, when the professor distributed a single white feather to each pair of students, and instructed them to "Practice."

Minerva found herself partnered with Alastor, which she wouldn't have minded so much if it didn't seem as though he were deliberately sabotaging his efforts; he would botch the incantation, he would forget the wand movement, he would get frustrated and irate and start over again. Considering they had spent the better part of an hour going over both of these things, she wasn't entirely sure how he could so consistently forget.

In fairness to him, the rest of the class was faring little better. The gentle swishing of wands filled the air, punctuated by young voices crying "_Wingardium leviosa_" as precisely as they could, but there as yet no hovering feathers. Behind her, Minerva could distinctly hear Augusta's murmured curses ("_Wingardium levi_-fuckin'-_osa_" was Minerva's personal favourite) and their dorm-mate Martine Ramkin's muttered admonitions. Finally, a great cheer rang out, and Minerva looked up to see Iain Menzies, of all people, deftly twirling a feather in mid-air. Albert Mockridge gawked amazedly beside him, and the rest of the class was all duly impressed until Bilius Weasley, a freckly Gryffindor with shockingly red hair, also managed the spell.

From then on it was no longer cause for much excitement when a feather rose to the ceiling, though each one made Alastor grumble a little more. Finally, in his frustration, he grumbled something like "_Wingardum levosa,_" struck out his wand in a stabbing motion, and most unexpectedly sent his feather flying across the room, as fast as a seeker after the Snitch, where it was plucked out of the air by Professor Poole a split-second before it struck a black-haired Ravenclaw girl Minerva didn't know (whose name turned out to be Quintina Cattermole) in the eye.

Professor Poole brought the feather back over to the pair. Minerva, feeling all eyes on her, felt the colour rise in her face and wished profoundly to be elsewhere. She had no idea how Alastor could meet the Professor's eyes so stonily, with no shame or remorse. "Perhaps Miss McGonagall should attempt the spell," was her only comment. She was soon enough distracted by Miss Cattermole fainting, but the girl was revived and seemed no worse for wear, though she kept her distance from Alastor for some time afterwards.

Alastor, for his part, was totally unapologetic, but he motioned for Minerva to try her luck with the stubborn feather. Clearing her throat, she said the incantation perfectly ("_Wingardium leviosa_"), performed the motion (swish-and-flick), and the feather dutifully rose into the air. It would be impossible to overstate how ecstatic Minerva was at performing her very first spell; she was a witch now, an honest-to-goodness witch, and she felt as though she could do anything. All the world was hers for the taking. Her elation dimmed slightly when she remembered her letter from that morning, and pictured her father's unimpressed frown. It died completely when she turned to Alastor and saw the frustration, disappointment, and envy flash through his eyes.

"Good job." He grumbled, and it sounded as sincere as anything else he said, but for once she could read him. He had tried, very hard, but he could not succeed, when she had found it so easy. What was natural to her was a struggle to him; magic, making friends, everything. It was no wonder he was so alone.

Professor Poole dismissed the class then, and Alastor turned away to gather his bag. For the first time, Minerva had a real sense of the sadness in him. She saw him now in a new light: he slouched, yes, but it was because he was weighed down by his own insecurities. She saw his scowl, but also the sadness in his eyes. She wanted to help him, as she decided later, but she wasn't quite sure how.

Having completed her first class at Hogwarts, Minerva felt as though she had a fair idea of what to expect as she and Alastor approached the room in which they were to be taught Defence Against the dark Arts. As it would soon turn out, she was very much mistaken. The door was closed when they arrived, but Alastor reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could open it. She opened her mouth to protest, but found Alastor's other hand move to cover it. He shook his head softly, and retreated away from the door, pulling her along with him.

Eventually, when they were out of sight of the door, he released her. "Alastor, what has gotten into you?" She shouted. In truth, she was slightly afraid; she liked to think that she knew Alastor reasonably well, and that he wasn't the sort of person who would harm her. But she thought back to the previous night, and the look in his eye as he stared down Mulciber. There was an argument to be made that Minerva had had a sheltered life, but even she knew that look was not to be found on a person in complete control of their senses.

Fortunately for her, Alastor has no designs upon harming her; quite the opposite, as it happened. "Didn't smell right," he replied curtly.

_Didn't smell right_? Minerva felt her blood boil. The audacity of this boy, dragging her bodily from a place based on the hunches of his _nose_, of all things. "Alastor, I'm going to class."

Once again, he stopped her. "Wait. Watch."

Something in his voice made her stop. It was fear. So she waited.

They didn't have to wait long before another student approached the door. It turned out to be the rat-like Parkes, conspicuously independent of the first-year Slytherin boy's pack. Alastor leaned forward from his hiding place expectantly and, indeed, was not disappointed: Parkes opened the door, let out a slight shriek, fell over onto his back, and was pulled inside.

Alastor turned back to Minerva, but there was no trace of the smug superiority she had expected. In fact, she saw a steely determination that made him look years older than he was. "We've got to do something." She said, somewhat pathetically.

He nodded. "Can't go in that way. Any other ways in?" She didn't know. He considered it a moment. "What's this, third floor?" She nodded. "Come on."

Before he could grab her arm again, Minerva stepped out of reach. "Alastor, tell me what your plan is."

His eyes narrowed, but she met them; the stubbornness that made her a laughingstock amongst the pureblood families was her saviour here, for Alastor relented. "Classroom's on an exterior wall," he explained, "We climb the wall and go in through the window."

She gaped at him for a moment. The two of them, eleven-year-olds with no climbing experience whatsoever, climb three stories of solid brick and break through the windows? "Alastor, you're mad; we'll be killed if we try that."

He huffed, clearing disbelieving. "Got a better plan?"

Truthfully, she didn't, but she cast her eyes about wildly in some desperate hope. It was then that her eyes lit upon a nearby suit of armour. "I might," she replied, and started to outline her plan.

In moments they had mobilized. Minerva had, very gently, levitated the suit of armour into a position just outside the door, where Alastor had thrown his cloak over it in a crude attempt at disguise. The armour's battle axe and shield were borne by Alastor, who had taken his position just outside the door's opening edge. Minerva herself stood some paces back, ready to magically open the door.

Alastor gave her a nod, their agreed-upon signal, and a whispered incantation swung the door open. As they expected, a jet of red light burst out of the room, sending their mannequin flying across the floor with an almighty racket. The pair could just barely hear a woman's voice wonder "What in the hell?" before they leapt in, Alastor brandishing his axe and Minerva with wand outstretched.

The resulting confrontation did not last long.

Inside the room were the rest of Gryffindor and Slytherin houses, all staring at the pair with a mildly fearful look in their eyes. Even Mulciber, Minerva noted with some pleasure, was eyeing the vicious weapon in Alastor's hand somewhat warily. Also in the room, indeed the only other person in the room, was the ancient woman Minerva had noticed at the feast, ear trumpet dangling from a silver chain around her neck, wand in-hand, and the most extreme look of shock of anyone in the room.

The room was so still, the fly buzzing outside the window may as well have been a full orchestra.

For the second time that day, all eyes were on Minerva and Alastor. Then, without warning, the old woman clapped her hands together. The students must have jumped a clear foot in the air. "Excellent!" the woman declared, much too loudly. "Twenty points to Gryffindor. Constant vigilance!" she bellowed, rounding on the rest of the class. They shrunk away from her. "You lot could take a lesson from these two." She declared proudly, draping an arm around each of them.

The woman, it happened, was Professor Merrythought, and she was to teach them Defence Against the Dark Arts. The exercise that morning, she explained to them, was a lesson in preparedness. "You can never be too careful." She roared (Professor Merrythought always either roared or bellowed; deafness and a cantankerous attitude took their toll on her, and on the rest of her students). "Never know when somebody'll be out to get you. McGonagall and Moody, now; they know how to take care of themselves." And she beamed at them.

In keeping with her philosophy of extreme paranoia, the very first lesson they ever had was on the shield charm. "Proper shielding technique," Professor Merrythought explained, "is critical; it'll save your life one day, or my name ain't Galatea Merrythought!"

Her initial plan had been to separate them into pairs, and have them take turns hexing each other. This plan was derailed when Rufus Belcher, a Gryffindor whose last name unfortunately predicted his portly stature, pointed out that they hadn't been taught any hexes yet. Professor Merrythought scoffed at that, insisting that she had taught them the Sneezing Hex ("Excellent distractor; forgetting about incapacitators will be the death of you, I say, or my name ain't Galatea Merrythought!") just the other day, but deflated slightly when she was reminded that today was the first day of classes.

"Alright then!" She bellowed, not to be diminished. "Line up, and I'll try y'out for myself!" Which she did, with disastrous consequences; her spellcasting, as forceful as her personality, made mincemeat of the pitiful shields the first-years were able to throw up in defence, and her repertoire of jinxes and hexes was matched only by her stream of age-d wisdom ("Put your back into it you lump; shield charms are as much about your body as your magic, or my name ain't Galatea Merrythought!"). Each student was struck by a brand new terror when they came into contact with Professor Merrythought's wand, and half-a-dozen of them went down before somebody slipped out and returned with Madame Benson, the matron.

Out of the entire class there were only two occasions of any note, other than the general tendency towards suffering. The first was Minerva herself, who managed a passable shield and escaped with only a minute case of twitchy-ears. The second was, naturally, Alastor.

Alastor's shield charm failed spectacularly, keeping with the thread of his day, and was sent flying to the floor with his face swelling grotesquely. Professor Merrythought harrumphed, clearly disappointed in her second star pupil, and waved the next student, Martine Ramkin, forward. Alastor, however, had other designs. He pulled himself to the floor, with great apparent effort, and pushed the grateful-looking girl out of the way. "Again." He growled.

Professor Merrythought, for her part, seemed to have found new respect for the boy, but that didn't stop her from punishing him. Another spell went through him unopposed, but he struggled to his feet again, this time with leeks sprouting from his ears. "Again." Professor Merrythought obliged him. "Again" and "Again" and "Again."

The other students looked on in horror as their classmate was jinxed and hexed beyond recognition. He took a dozen spells full-on, always managing to pull himself up to his feet again, and by the time even Professor Merrythought had had enough of the carnage, Alastor had his head encased in a pumpkin, stretched to twice his normal height, live fish streaming from his nose, was wrestling the urge to perform a complicated cha-cha on legs with reversed knees, and was sporting all manner of boils and hives. His case was so severe that Madame Benson required Minerva's assistance to take him to the hospital wing.

Considering the circumstances, Professor Merrythought dismissed the class along with them. Although the woman had deflated slightly as Alastor kept asking for more, Minerva was not at all surprised to hear the parting remark she bellowed to the class: "The boy's got gumption, not like the rest of you lot. He'll go far, or my name ain't Galatea Merrythought!"

_(fire we're on fire everything's on fire the town's on fire the sky's on fire the buildings are on fire why is there so much)_

_We're all going to die_

_(the noise oh the noise oh the noise oh the noise oh the noise oh the noise oh the noise oh the noise oh)_

_I'm going to die_

_(the screams oh god the screams oh god the screams oh god the screams oh god the screams oh god oh god)_

_I'm only seven years old and I'm going to die_

_(madness this is madness this is madness this is madness this is madness this is madness this is)_

_People are in pain_

_People are dying_

_(help them why won't you help them please you have to help them for the love of god why won't you_

"HELP THEM!"

"Minerva?" A voice asked gently. "Are you alright?"

Minerva opened her eyes to find herself sitting bolt upright in a strange bed, in a strange room, panting and sweating as if she'd run a marathon, and surrounded by four people she didn't recognize. She looked from face to face to face, eyes wide with fear, unable to speak, barely able to breathe, when the voice asked again, "Minerva?"

That voice. That voice was familiar. How did she know that voice? Her eyes happened to alight on the curtains surrounding her four-poster bed. Red and gold.

The fog lifted. She was at Hogwarts. These people were her dorm-mates. The voice, belonging to a person at her left elbow, white as a sheet, was Augusta Blishwick. "Are you okay?" the young woman asked again.

Minerva ran her tongue over her lips. No, she wasn't. She was desperately thirsty, drenched with sweat, and had evidently done something highly embarrassing in the middle of the night. But still she said "I'm alright." She got out of bed, rising unsteadily to her feet as the other girls gave her a wide berth. "What happened?"

Another girl, Agatha Shepperd, an excitable girl with bushy red hair and a tendency to speak exceedingly quickly, answered: "You were tossing around in your sleep, moaning; we thought you were having a fit. Then you just bolted up, screaming bloody murder." She quivered with fear, or possibly excitetment.

"What happened, Minerva? What were you dreaming about?" This was Belvina Adams, a larger girl with short brown hair and a calm, serious demeanour.

Minerva, who had by this time walked to the small bathroom adjacent to the girl's dormitory, drew some water and splashed her face with it. "Something happened. A long time ago." She looked into the mirror; her eyes were bloodshot. "Something bad."

"What was it?" Augusta asked.

Minerva closed her eyes, trying to hold onto the dream. Houses on fire, people screaming; that was all that was left. "I don't remember." She replied, truthfully. She returned to the dormitory room, slightly taken aback by the way that the four girls were still staring at her. "I'm sorry for waking you," She told them, walking to her bed and picking up her dressing gown. "I'll go see Madame Benson tomorrow about a sleeping potion."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Augusta asked again. Minerva was touched by her concern.

"I'm okay." She replied, cinching the belt of her gown. "I just need to get some air." And she left them, down the staircase to the common room, with more questions than answers. Adding to her own list of questions, as she discovered on her descent, was the odd noise coming from the common room. It was a low noise, a short sequence repeating over and over again.

As she padded closer, she could make it out: "_Wingardium leviosa. Wingardium leviosa. Wingardium leviosa_" and so on, _ad infinitum_. She peeked into the room, and descried the silhouette of Alastor Moody, the left side of his face heavily bandaged, sitting on one of the couches with a single feather on the table in front of him. She observed him for a minute or two, in which he must have performed the incantation close to a hundred times, with the perfect pronunciation and wand movement, and yet the feather did not so much as shiver. She saw his shoulders droop with frustration as he looked to the sky. She wondered if he was praying, imploring some higher power to please, let the spell work.

Nightmare forgotten, Minerva resolved herself to help him out. Moving carefully, so as not to make any noise, she drew her wand, thankful that she always kept it on her person, and very carefully timed her movement with his next one, and whispered the words so he could not hear.

To say Alastor was surprised to see that obstinate feather lift gracefully off the table would be an unforgiveable understatement; from the look on his face, God himself had descended and picked the damned thing up. Minerva was so pleased with herself for getting this reaction out of him, when publically he was such a stoic, that she almost forgot to bring the feather down again when his wand came down.

Alastor looked at it a long while. Part of Minerva wished she could read his mind, but for the moment she just watched him; he could not have considered that feather more closely if it were a diamond and he were a jeweller. Presently, however, he sucked in a deep, anticipatory breath of air, and clearly was about to try again.

This time Minerva did not assist. She had taken a gamble, that he would mistrust himself enough to want to check the result, but it had paid off.

He did the movement very carefully, very deliberately, but this time something happened that had not happened before: it became warm. Minerva could feel the temperature rise a degree or two as a breath of warm air filled it. Simultaneously, the feather once more rose to the ceiling, purely under Alastor's direction.

The look on his face was indescribable; for once, he looked like an eleven-year-old boy, his eyes filled with wonder, his jaw hanging open and curled into a strange sort of smile. He looked normal, apart from the bandages, and Minerva felt her heart soar with pride, both for herself and for his accomplishment. She turned to go back to bed, but the sound of her foot on the stone was loud enough to catch the boy's attention. Twisting his head like a jackrabbit, the boyish look melting instantly into his usual scowl, the two locked eyes. A moment passed. Then two. Minerva could hear her heart beating, wondering what he was going to do.

Finally, he smiled. It was thin, from anyone else it would look self-deprecating. But she knew, though she wasn't sure how, that he was grateful. She smiled back, and ascended the stairs once more. As she lay down to sleep, the pain and terror of her dream long forgotten, Minerva McGonagall hadn't a thought in her head considering what sort of reward that borrowed confidence would reap.


End file.
